


You Dreaded Venery

by TychoBrandt



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Diaspora, Exodus - Freeform, Occupation, Old truths we don't want to look at very closely, Other, Teraphilia, Teraphobia, When ecologies collide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:52:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7426450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TychoBrandt/pseuds/TychoBrandt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You get to a certain age and you stop fearing monsters, stop fearing the dark. Because you learn that man is the most dangerous thing, and you learn to fear man.</p><p>Somewhere along the line you started fearing yourself, too. Because the only thing separating man from monster is electricity, running water, and three small words.</p><p>And you're a word short.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blind

Shane shuts his front door.

He looks around his living room.

Ah. There. Tucked between the cushions of his couch.

He fishes out the remote, aims it at the TV, and after a pause...

Click.

"--completed the perimeter fencing around Mt. Ebott--"

Click.

"--spoken with the so-called 'monster' ambassador--"

Click.

"--not considered citizens due to nonhuman--"

Click.

Shane lets the remote fall to the carpet. 

He really can't get away from this bullshit, can he?

Twenty-four seven news cycle. All over the Internet. Cops peering into tinted windows. Everyone giving everyone a second glance, just to make sure they're human.

He can't even lose himself in his work. They've left the radio on in the garage for a full week now, so unless he's got an engine going he has to hear the pundits wring their hands and shout their plastic faces off. And then everyone at work just wants to talk about it, because what the fuck else are they going to talk about? Who gives a shit about rally cars when you've got dragons and unicorns and shit just outside your door?

Fuck. 

Go out to the bar? No point. People are scared, locking themselves in their homes until they get a grip on what's going on. Streets clear out after dark-- someone said they saw something big moving in an alley, someone said they saw a weird thing on a rooftop, someone said this or that. He said, she said. Now the cops roll their patrolcars up and down the boulevards, straining to see anything past their headlights.

Shane is stressed. So Shane does what he does when he is stressed: He washes his hands, cloisters himself in his bathroom, jacks off--twice in a row--washes his hands again--twice--and then fetches a beer from the fridge.

He feels... less stress, sure. But it's replaced by something else. A little more rational.

Dread, probably. 

... Some people have moved. Just up and left the suburbs nearest to Mt. Ebott. It's a fifteen minute drive away but they pissed right off all the same. Shane can't really blame them.

He pops off the bottlecap with the opener on his keys. Takes a drink. Imperial stout. That's a good beer for dread, he thinks with a roll of his eyes.

He leans his elbows on his kitchen counter. He looks over at the remote, laying tantalizingly on the carpet.

... Nope.

He gets on his computer. Boots up a game, any game--cracks open another stout--tries to lose himself in fantasy.

Ten minutes in he realizes he's killing monsters. In the game. He's a monster-slayer.

... It should be no different than playing a shooter where you're blasting humans, but... he shuts it off. It feels different, now. A little... just... _not good._

So he sits there, looking at his reflection in the monitor, thinking.

And he gets up and pops open another stout, and thinks a little more.

And then he finally ferments the courage to pick up the remote, turn on the TV, and listen.

"--early miners and even contemporary geologists failed to realize the scope of these massive caverns--"

Shane gulps. Listens. No one's yelling at anyone, so it's easier to listen. He tries to sit down, but his legs refuse, so he just paces across his floor, back and forth. He peeks out of the blinds-- why? What the fuck is he worried about? 

He watched the main conference thing. The mayor and the president and all the people who didn't pay taxes were up there, shaking hands (Hands? Paws? ... Claws?) with a seven-fucking-foot tall prehistoric goat-beast. Horns and fangs and glinting eyes and a voice like thunder.

... That bothered Shane the most. The _voice._

Because how can an animal talk? Speak... _his_ language? They have different vocal cords and different tongue shape and different teeth and-- and-- and--

Yeah, sure, the goat-beast-god-emperor had a goat-wife and a goat-kid (literally, a goat kid) but the fuck about the rest? Some looked harmless, others looked like they had been bred for war. 

"--historians are now examining ancient folk stories and local mythologies more carefully--"

And there was a fucking war. That's what they said. The monsters lost and got shut underground, like something out of a Greek or Egyptian story. And now they were back.

And they had a human with them. How convenient.

Shane is on his fourth stout and his skin feels warm. His tongue feels slow. But his thoughts are crystalline. 

He stands, walks into his bedroom, opens his closet, pushes aside his jeans and jackets.

And he looks very closely at his old shotgun.

He nods. To himself, maybe. Mostly to no one.

His dad took him hunting, once, when he was a kid.

Up on Mt. Ebott.

He _hated_ it.

Shane closes the closet door.

He walks back into his living room.

He sits down, the darkness of his house lit by only the TV, and watches.

Watches, and thinks.


	2. Lean

Shane sits in his truck.

The dusk sun cuts molten orange across the dashboard, the seats. He's sweating, but he keeps the windows up. 

The parking lot of the local supermarket isn't very crowded.

It had been, just a week ago. When the news about the monsters from underground broke, well, a whole lot of Ebott made a mad dash--canned food, water, gasoline, generators, guns, ammo. 

The supermarket kept the guns and ammo locked up. Whether it was their decision or it came from the government, well... he said, she said.

Now, here he was, watching a squad of military types load up blank white vans with boxes and packages. The government wouldn't let any monsters leave their perimeter (or... maybe they didn't want to?), but as a show of goodwill (more like a tribute, Shane thinks) the mayor sent vanloads of food every night.

Shane squints. Leans forward a bit.

A lot of meat going into those vans.

Red meat. 

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. 

He read that a lion can eat a hundred pounds of meat in a day. Internet said so.

He torques his keys, shifts into drive.

He forgot what he needed, anyway.

As he pulls out of the parking lot, he glances in his mirrors--and sees the military types watching him go. Sees the rifles slung close.

He grips the wheel. Keeps his eyes on the road.


	3. Stand

Shane steps into the elevator.

He jabs his knuckles against the button for the fiftieth floor, and leans against the polished chrome wall, arms crossed.

He watches the glowing numbers above the doors smoothly tick upward. 

He is very aware of his heartbeat. His breaths are shallow. 

He balls his hands into fists, pulls his arms closer to his chest, takes a deep breath. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing can--there's--everything is fine.

He made sure. On the way in, he made sure--didn't look at the security guard, faced away from the security cameras. Dressed a bit nicer than usual to look like he was supposed to be here.

The lift doesn't stop. He made sure to show up at the least busy time of the day, to deal with the fewest amount of people possible. Less people to notice that he doesn't belong here.

Yeah, sure, it was just an office building. But still... it was one of the more important buildings in Ebott. This skyscraper was part of the financial center of the city, after all.

The elevator chimes. Shane gives a start, then squares his shoulders as the doors glide open.

He walks out, strides measured, and goes right up to the massive windows. From all the way up here, you can see--well, just about all of Ebott. 

Shane glances left, then right. The floor is empty but for him.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his scuffed and beaten binoculars. Pops off the lens caps.

At this angle, on this side of the building, you can just see the base of Mt. Ebott... yeah, there's the old campground. The one that got shut down all those years ago when kids started going missing. Before Shane's time, really.

He follows the bright steel fence--fifteen feet tall, welded wire mesh, topped with ribbons of razor wire (electrified?)--until he sees what appears to be the checkpoint. The tops of the trees are obscuring his view, but... he can see movement. Uniforms.

Military. They're moving slowly--just routine work, Shane thinks. He watches as they wave a sedan through. Wonders who that could be.

But... wait.

Wait.

Along with the drab uniforms, he noticed two dots of color moving about. One red, one blue. Wearing some kind of white body armor. The one in red seems to be gesturing to the military, and they move accordingly. An officer, maybe? But why the different uniform? 

The one is blue isn't moving, just watching. 

Shane leans forward, the lenses of his binoculars bumping against the window. 

Who... ?

Shane recoils, gasping. He drops his binocs, clutching at his face.

His left eye pulses painfully to his heartbeat. Feels like it's bulging out of the socket. Vessels close to bursting. Hot. Too full of blood.

He grits his teeth, fallen to one knee. He wipes at his left eye--tears are streaming from it. 

He shakes his head. Grabs his binocs, keeps his left eye squeezed shut and tries to monocle it. What the fuck is going on down there? How... ?

... The red and blue officers are gone.


	4. Rut

Shane drops the remote.

The reporter on TV looks just as shocked. No--the shock doesn't reach his dead eyes; it's fake. He looks excited, smug, all hidden behind a thin veneer of television showmanship. He knows that he has a sensational story on his hands.

"The mayor has declared today that the nonhumans from underneath Mt. Ebott--who refer to themselves as 'monsters'--will be allowed to leave the relocation camp at the base of the mountain and enter the city with military supervision. The mayor promises that this show of hospitality--"

No. 

No no no no--

Shane whips his head around, looking for something, anything to throw, smash, crush. Something to vent his red ball of fury into and break to manageable pieces. Just--

He stops, tamps down his fear before it can erupt, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Fuck," he whispers. Fuck indeed. 

Be calm. Be rational. There's no reason to... be acting like this. Shane knows this. He's not a damn idiot. 

Military supervision, right? So it's not like they can... do anything. The uniforms out at the checkpoint already do a headcount of all of the monsters on the surface, once in the morning, once in the evening. 

And... it's not like they'd let the dangerous ones loose. That's absurd. 

\--- --- ---

The next day at work isn't so good.

"They're letting them loose, man! That's fucking--that's fucking crazy!"

Shane just nods, eyes flitting over the inventory order on the computer screen. Seems like those new batteries might just put them over... "Yeah."

"I mean--shit, you heard what they said, right? There was a war, and those freaks lost and spent like thousands of years--"

"They don't even know how long," a voice interjects from across the garage.

"--Yeah, so like they're just coming up and gonna act like everything's fine? I mean, they must have at least some hard feelings--"

"Or maybe they don't remember," Shane mutters, clicking a few times and pecking at the keyboard. 

"Okay, maybe, but I was listening to this guy, right--that guy on the livestream--and he makes a lot of sense of all this. I mean, he points out that, like, all human cultures have stories about monsters or whatever, right? And about people killing monsters, or monsters killing or eating people! And that, like, these stories are passed down, or genomic memory or whatever, and--"

The phone rings. Shane holds it out to Josh. "Answer this for me, will you?"

Josh's flame doesn't burn out. He answers the phone with conspiratorial vigor.

\--- --- ---

They ask him to go to the bar after work. He doesn't want to. But, for reasons unknown to himself, Shane goes.

And he sits on the same stool, and orders the same thing (imperial stout, of course), and says only enough to reassure people that yes, he is listening, yes, he is still alive. 

"You see that one royal guard?" someone nudges Shane's ribs. He loses a bit of his stout's foam. He frowns, looks up. Oh. Drew. Good. Great.

"Which one?" Shane says, stretching out his words for as much filler as possible.

"The blue girl! With the eyepatch! I mean, damn, when she did those interviews and wasn't wearing all that armor--" Drew makes an hourglass shape with his hands, sloshing drink onto the floor. "Fucking hardbody. Brick house. But still had enough boobs for cleavage!" 

The ale on Drew's breath makes Shane squint. "Fish."

"What?"

"That one is a fish."

"What?" Drew laughs, a little too loudly. "She's blue, but--"

"And has fins. And scales. And gills. And fangs."

Drew throws up his free hand. "Like you've seen her up close."

"It," Shane corrects. 

"That 'it' is more womanlike than anyone you've ever fucked."

Oh, bravo, Drew. Not bad for five drinks in. Deep breath. Calm. "You ever rubbed wet sea salt on your dick? 'Cause that's what it'll feel like."

Drew opens his mouth to retort, but notices that Shane's glass is practically full. "The hell is up with you? Why you so--"

"Me?" Shane snorts. "Fuck, what _is_ up with me? It's like I'm not running with this bestiality craze, wow, what a fucking weirdo _I_ am." He smacks a hand to his head. "Are you-- did you not _notice_ the fucking dinosaurs and walking sharks? Do you have any idea what these things _are?_ "

Drew sticks his tongue out from between white teeth. "Cunt's a cunt, salty or not. You just gotta dive into some oceans." 

"You--" Shane stands up--"are fucking disgusting." He slams down his glass, tosses a twenty (too much, but he doesn't care) and shoulders his way to the exit, hands in his pockets. 

"I think you got some psycho-lo-analyzing to do!" Drew's slurring voice rolls after him over the crowd. 


	5. Scrape

Shane is at home.

He's at home a lot, recently. 

He keeps the air conditioning on high. The cold keeps him focused. 

He's sitting in front of his computer, eyes flitting across the screen, squinting at image after image. 

The blinds are closed. The only light comes from the monitor.

It just... it doesn't make _sense._

The deepest ore mines used by humans run five kilometers below the surface... but from what they've been saying about this underground civilization, they've lived at places four times deeper. They spoke of subterranean forests, oceans, tundras, deserts...

It can't be.

Humans knew what subterranean creatures looked like. Pale, translucent, blind, groping through caverns for insects or lichen. Or deep sea creatures--compact, misshapen, bizarre, never meant to be seen in daylight. 

And yet here they were. Mammal, reptile, bird, fish, some bipedal, some more, some less. Blinking in the noonday sun, but speaking like they've only been gone for a vacation.

They had their own source of energy. They had reverse engineered every piece of human technology since the industrial revolution. But they couldn't have drilled another exit? Blown a hole in a different part of the planet's crust? 

Shane leans back, staring at his ceiling. He picks out a few familiar patterns.

They kept talking about... _magic._

But magic wasn't real.


	6. Rub

Shane is leaning forward, elbows on knees, jaw on fist.

Asgore Dreemurr. King of the Monsters. On every news channel, he was giving a joint speech with the mayor of Ebott city-- about tolerance, acceptance, understanding. But from the way he was talking, you'd think he was trying to pep talk a kid's soccer team. He kept saying 'teamwork,' over and over again in that earthquake of a voice. There was nothing formal or ceremonial about his bearing-- he was all casual, all friendly. No armor, this time. The reporting press laughed and winced at his stupid jokes.

He opened up the speech with a booming "howdy!" for fuck's sake. 

What a fucking joke.

Didn't help that his name's anagram was 'sage or murderer.' 

His wife and son were beside him on the stage, along with the supposed 'ambassador' of monsters--that kid Frisk. Looked like a big shitting happy family, gathered up to say something sentimental at a reunion.

Shane laces his fingers together, rests his hands on his stomach, leans back into his sagging couch. 

Frisk. The human that emerged from that giant fucking hole in the ground, and brought all of monsterdom trailing after her. 

She--or _they_ , whatever--stood there, looking... thoughtful, hopeful, just a little bit concerned. Eyes moving slowly over the gathered reporters. The eyes of someone who's seen far too much for a ten or eleven or whatever year old. 

\--- --- ---

Shane's been preoccupied. Been trying to keep his mind off of... well, you know. So he threw himself into work, into his computer, into alcohol, into anything that wasn't... well... Mt. Ebott.

He's driving down the road and notices that his battery charge is in the red. Well, fuck. Now he has to pay premium at a charging station instead of using his one at home or at work, but... fuck it, fine.

He drives into the station, slides his card into the machine, links up the power cord to the charger on the side of his truck.

Only after the cord starts humming with voltage does he glance up at the price sign.

"Fucking _seriously?_ " he grunts out loud. Maybe a little too loudly.

"Yeah, prices going up, huh?"

Shane flicks his gaze to the side. Some other guy charging his crossover gestures to the sign. "It's been going up for weeks."

"Yeah," Shane mutters noncommittally. He doesn't go to charge stations for conversations, and how he despises the people who do. "We're footing the bill for an oversized bug zapper, and then they gouge the prices on us. Those things lived in the dark, why do they need electricity anyway?"

Shane freezes. His guts tighten. Pull together like a pink and red yarn ball.

He shouldn't have said that. Not in public. Never mind the facetious snarl to his words--everyone's on edge, everyone takes everything at face value.

Shane doesn't make eye contact. He just stares straight ahead. He gulps in the silence and starts cleaning his windows to give himself a reason not to speak.

But the other guy doesn't say anything. He just hums to himself, finishes charging, gets in his car and drives off.

Shane's blood feels like crackling frost. What if he--was that--who--?

And then he walks back around his truck, after tossing the wiper in the bin, and notices a piece of paper stuck between his hood and windshield.

He pulls it out gingerly, and blinks as he reads it.

_You're not the only one._

A date. A time. An address. 

And nothing else.

Shane looks up, gets into his truck, and drives the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is a little different than the other stories, I guess._
> 
> _Tell me what you think. If you care to._


	7. Beam

New computer. VPN. Proxies. 

Shane isn't a hacker by any definition. But he's learned a bit from his perusals of the Internet. 

Now, of all times, is the time to keep your head down and your mouth shut. He shakes his head as he looks over the usual forums--either calling for acceptance of monsters, for them to be driven back underground, for them to be killed.

Interestingly enough, the ones calling for death tend to get banned the fastest. For the best, Shane thinks.

So he digs. He finds forum threads full of arguments, for why humanity should be wary of monsters. These don't last long--seems like moderators preemptively snip those threads to prevent future flame wars.

Shane taps his fingers rythmically against his keyboard. 

He digs deeper. He finds what he's looking for: critical discussion. Reasons why monsters should be watched, and watched carefully. Thoughts on how different kinds of monsters might be better suited than others to live alongside humans. Pointed questions about monster diets.

But... even there... there's an undercurrent of passivity. Of resignation. Of a vanquished party rationalizing their defeat.

Shane sighs and closes the browser.

\--- --- ---

Horns.

Cloven hoofs.

Trident.

Lives underground.

A fallen king.

Shane has been rifling through pages and pages on mythology. Where the complex superstitions began as simple glimpses of something strange in the night.

And he can't help but notice...

Don't all human cultures have underworlds, to some degree? A place beneath the earth where the dead or condemned remain?

And don't these underworlds generally have stewards, cruel and merciless?

... Shane doesn't want to even think it.

It's nonsensical.

Asgore is not the inspiration for the fucking _devil_. That's... beyond ridiculous.

Shane turns off his computer, goes to bed.

But he just lays there on top of the covers, listening, tensing every time he hears a police car rumble past his house.


	8. Prey

Shane lies in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The moonlight cutting through his blinds lays white prison bars across his carpet.

In four hours, he will get up, take a shower, brush his teeth, eat breakfast, get dressed, get in his truck, and go to work.

Like the hundreds of days before this one.

But the difference--

The difference is that when he backs out of his garage, Shane will look up and see Mt. Ebott looming on the horizon like a guillotine. 

How many times has his gaze drifted past that treacherous spire of rock? 

It was rated by alpinists as one of the most dangerous climbs in the country. Not for its height, but for the way rocks seemed to always crumble underfoot, how handholds would suddenly be too shallow or too sharp, how chasms would appear without warning to swallow the bright-eyed climber.

It was no surprise that so many suicide notes ended with "I'm going to the mountain."

Only a few decades ago, the mountain was closed off. The campground at the base of the Mt. Ebott and a few hiking trails were all that remained--and acted as the city's main source of tourism income.

Shane had walked those trails, when he was younger. Alone, or with friends, pushing through the chill mist. Winding his way through the pine trees, the underbrush, the creeping vines, hopping from stone to stone and fording streams. He remembered how he'd always be glancing over his shoulder at that ancient colossus of dark rock.

He sits up in bed, rubbing at his tired eyes. His heart beats steady and slow.

The stone giant stands at his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Let's kick it off._


	9. Kill

Shane learned the ways of death early. 

In the dead of night, they would clamber over the tall wiremesh fence and duck under the reflective 'KEEP OUT' signs. They would trudge in silence, boots falling upon dewy long grass and moldy dead leaves, for miles. Even at the base of Mt. Ebott, the trees grew imposingly massive, their canopies allowing only few rays of sunlight to touch the forest floor. Creeping thorny vines hung from the branches like grim offerings. Spiderwebs hung from the leaves like glass tapestries.

And then the faint blue light of morning would come over them. They could finally see their breath misting like ghosts in the empty chill. 

Shane's father would unsling the shotgun and hand it to Shane. At ten years old, it is a heavy weight in his small hands, numbed and trembling from the cold. 

And then his father would point into the swirling mists. 

They did not wear camouflage. They did not cover their scent with artificial sprays. They made no false mating calls. 

They crept low to the ground, in the mud and the bracken, breathing shallow, barely moving. They contorted against rocks and roots. They moved slow, so painfully slow, slow like the perpetual march of life.

Shane hugged the shotgun close. As much as it wearied him, it was his anchor. The only thing that kept him from drifting away into the grey fog, into the shadow of the mountain.

By the time they reached the spot, they looked more fearsome than any wild beast, covered in the warpaint of a wet earth. Wisps of steam rose from their sweating bodies. 

And Shane saw.

On a jagged piece of veiny shale jutting from the foot of Mt. Ebott, a family of elk had gathered around a small stream, among the smooth and mossy stones. 

Tawny and muscled and beautiful. 

He slowly rose up, one knee braced against the ground. He brought the stock of the shotgun against his skinny shoulder. He gripped the pump.

A majestic bull elk turned its head and gazed upon him.

He lined up the glowing sights. Where that great red beating heart would be. 

He pulled the trigger.

The sun broke over the horizon, and all was bright. 

\--- --- ---

They approached.

The elk had fallen to the forest floor, gasping, kicking weakly. 

Shane's throat was dry. He swallowed a mouthful of cold, wet air. It didn't help.

He racked the slide of the shotgun. The empty hissing shell spiraled off to the right. They'd get it later.

Shane's father put a hand on the barrel and forced it downward. Shane looked up, confused, tense.

Shane's father drew his long hunting knife, and held it out, hilt first, to his son.

Shane looked at it.

Then he took it, cradled it. 

He laid the shotgun on the soft moist soil and crept over to the elk. The longest walk of his young life. The closer he came, the larger it became. Ten times his size. 

The beast had grown stiller. Its breaths were more labored, but slower, deeper. Its antlers were covered in mud and leaves and blood, a wild crown. 

The elk looked up at Shane with one black eye. Shane looked back. 

They looked at each other for a long time.

Then Shane knelt and cut its throat. 

\--- --- ---

Shane sits in his truck, waiting.

Thinking.

This is, by all accounts, essentially suicide.

A random man at a charge station gives him a note. A random man. Could be anyone. A dissenting citizen? Maybe. An undercover detective? Just as possible. 

Shane looks down, for the tenth time, at the piece of paper in his hand, that has been crumpled and resmoothed over and over again the past few days. 

Address. Date. Time. 

Shane looks up. Maybe three blocks away... there's the address. Right in the middle of suburbia. All nice houses and nice yards and streetlights that don't flicker and roads that aren't cracking. 

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. 

He knows this could be a trap. He knows that very well. But he's also seen it--the looks of disgust, of horror, of fear, and disbelief, of outright primal hate--in the eyes and faces of his fellow humans. On the Internet, on TV, on the street. 

Shane snorts. Fellow humans. Never thought he'd put those two words together. 

He thought about bringing something--something like a kitchen knife, you know, if things got rough. But realistically, if it was a police sting, he wouldn't have a chance anyway. And if it was an insane sacrificial blood cult dedicated to worshiping monsters... well, yeah, he also wouldn't have a chance. So he left the cutlery at home. 

Shane nods to himself. Bites his lip. Nods again.

He gets out of his truck, closes the door as quietly as possible, and with hands shoved in his jean pockets, walks the three blocks to the house. He glances around--it's nine at night. Lights in the windows. He wonders if anyone's watching--no, don't. Just keep your head forward. Walk.

... He should have parked farther away. Because he got there a whole lot faster than he expected. Now he's standing on the porch of a prefab two-story family home, sweating and shivering. 

He takes a steadying breath, the air rattling his ribcage, and rings the doorbell. 

And waits.

... Three two one. Okay, no, no no no, fuck, shit, no, forget this, just fucking--forget this fucking shit, he's fucking out, Shane is out of here, he turns around--

The door swings open.

Shane turns back around, heart still. 

A woman is standing there in the doorway, backlit by the light of the foyer.

She doesn't say anything.

Shane stares blankly at her, unsure of what to do.

She narrows her eyes, just slightly. She waits. 

Slowly, Shane extends his fist, and opens it.

The note lays there in his hand, pathetic. 

The woman looks at the note, at him, the note again, him again--and then opens the door completely, ushering him in with a gesture.

Shane crosses the threshold and doesn't look back.


	10. Beat

Shane lifts his eyes, gazing around the house. It looks so... normal. Too normal. 

The front door shuts behind him. The woman briskly walks past Shane and, with a look back, gestures at him to follow.

So Shane follows.

They say nothing to each other as they move through the house. Shane absorbs everything he can--the framed photographs on the walls, the bookshelves, the blooming flowers in glass vases, the occasional faded stain in the soft carpet, the sticky notes on the refrigerator. This doesn't seem like a bunker for revolutionaries. It just seems like... a house. 

He is so focused on the home he nearly runs into the woman.

She is standing at an open door; Shane peers in, and down. Beyond is a set of stairs leading into the earth.

The basement. Of course. How clandestine. 

Shane looks at her questioningly. Again, she only gestures. So Shane nods, and descends.

... Well.

This is it.

Shane descends into the basement. And blinks.

It's... actually quite bright, quite well furnished. Not exactly the typical hollow of concrete and wires and naked bulbs. May as well be a second living room.

... Aside from the numerous folding chairs, set up wherever the furniture would allow. And the people sitting in them.

Shane stands, rooted to the spot, as twenty or so heads to turn and look at him.

He pushes his fear to the back of his brain, and something else fills the vacuum. Warm, flickering, just below the boil. Anger? No... something else. He slowly runs his eyes over the gathered humans. 

... Middle aged, a number of younger faces. Mostly men, with a few women scattered among the ranks. Some with their phones in their laps, or with glasses of water. Shane meets every one of their gazes, squinting. Some return his challenge, eyes hard. Some give nervous smiles. Some look away. But Shane doesn't see the man from the charging station who invited him in the first place. Where--

"Welcome."

Shane gives a start. At the far end of the room, walking towards him, is an man all smiles and kind eyes. He snakes around the furniture with sureness and appears, too close, to Shane.

So Shane nods, extends his hand with the crumpled note. He watches the man's reaction carefully. 

... But the man's face betrays nothing. The man clasps Shane's hand and shakes it firmly. Shane blinks, and shakes back. "Take a seat. Good timing; we're about to begin."

So he does. Or tries, anyway. Apparently they didn't expect so many--so Shane found himself sitting on the arm of a pleather couch already carrying four people. 

He crosses his arms, and waits. The gathered people murmur quietly among themselves. Shane keeps his head down, strains his ears, but discerns nothing.

Finally, after speaking quietly with the woman who opened the door, the apparent leader comes up to the front of the basement. He spreads his hands.

"Good evening, everyone." Silence. "I know, for some of you, that this little get-together was short notice. We're missing a few people, actually... but I'm glad all of you made it."

A few polite nods. 

"I think we all know why we're here. This is our seventh meeting, after all. You're all busy people, so... I'll try to keep this short and sweet. The government is considering allowing the monsters to leave Camp Ebott in three months, as long as they stay within the city limits."

Muted sounds of dissent, disbelief. 

"As you all know, the government recently allowed monsters to leave the camp perimeter with a military escort, with curfew, and to non-residential areas. There have been... a few incidents."

Shane looks up.

"Someone swerved too close to a group of monsters on a sidewalk. A group of teenagers set off fireworks when they were visiting a restaurant. Protesters would follow with megaphones and signs. Most physical confrontation has only been between police and protesters, or military and protesters. The monster royal guard has shown restraint, so far. Their captain does seem prone to... outbursts, however."

The man licks his lips, clears his throat. The acoustics of the basement aren't ideal. "A group of men, at one point, tried to rush the ambassador child. They were unarmed, and they were not inebriated, so... the motive is obvious."

"They were going to take the kid away," someone speaks up. 

"An abduction?" the man asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"From the monsters, from the government. To a safe place, and ask her how she was _really_ doing." 

Shane twists in his seat. That voice...

"That's not likely to get a non-coerced answer out of her," the man says dryly. 

"But that's the point." The young man from the charging station, Shane realizes. "She--Frisk, if that's her real name--is surrounded by monsters or agents constantly. She's just a figurehead, an icon, a symbol. We don't know what really happened."

"True," the man up front says, but there's a steeliness in his voice. "How did you know they were going to take her away?"

A beat. And then: "Forums. Speculation, but... it seemed the most likely--"

"Right." The man continues, pacing among the chairs, making eye contact with everyone as he passes them. "The heart of the matter is that _we don't know._ We don't know what happened to Miss Frisk, or who these monster royalty people actually are. Maybe they're good people--"

A few scoffs and mutters. 

"... But, again, we just don't know. So, what we need to do is this: organize. Not just talk on _forums,_ " he says pointedly, "but have a physical presence. A _sane_ presence."

"How?" Another voice. A woman. "The government has been moving forward without asking anyone. When someone raises a complaint, they get called a bigot, or worse."

"By who?" The man raises his hands for emphasis. "Does the media call them a bigot?"

"Well... I mean--"

"We compile a list of every crime or attempted crime against a monster or the ambassador. We poll people--everyone. We get interviews, or at least quotes, from those historians trying to figure out what happened thousands of years ago." The man stops, clears his throat, sips from a glass of water. "We just ask _questions,_ people. Do the monsters still have hard feelings over this so-called war? Do they have records? The government is asking us to relearn thousands of years of human history in the course of months. All we have to do is prove that humanity is concerned, uncomfortable, and maybe not entirely ready." He takes a breath. "That's all."

The people shift in their seats. The air conditioning is on, down here, but Shane feels sweat streaming from his pits. 

"So..." Yet another voice. "When do we go public?"

"As soon as possible," the man says with conviction. "The sooner, the better. We can start with something basic--like what effect monster gold will have on the local economy. Something simple. But!" He rakes his eyes over the audience. "We must be sane and safe. We must not give in to fear or mob mentality. We must be..." He chuckles. It's an odd sound. "Humane."

Murmured assent. 

Shane is silent.

The man looks at him. He looks back, unflinching. 

 

\--- --- ---

 

They trickle out, one by one, into the night. Not as a mass, no; that would be suspicious. 

The man that spoke shakes hands, pats shoulders. Reassures them that everything will work out.

Eventually, he approaches Shane, who has stood aside all this time. 

"Glad you could make it," he says.

"Yeah."

"Was it what you were expecting?"

No. Not at all. "I didn't know what to expect."

The man chuckles. "Fair enough." He extends his hand. "I didn't get your name."

Shane shakes the man's hand. Firmly, this time. Just enough pressure. "Dan."

The man raises his eyebrows, then smiles. "Coincidences, right? My name's Daniel, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Testing my minimalist style in full force. Acceptable? Or not?_


	11. Sight

Shane gets home, closes the door behind himself, and proceeds to freak the fuck out.

Why? Why would he go to a fucking--a fucking full bore anti-monster meeting? What the fuck was he _thinking?_

He had kept glancing over and over again in his rearview mirror the entire drive home. His hands shook whenever a police patrol car rolled past--he almost peeled out at a stoplight when a police car pulled up next to him.

Shane locks and relocks his door, braces his hands against the imitation wood, rests his forehead against the peephole. He watches the cold sweat drip from his forehead onto the carpet.

Relax, damn you. It's over. It's done. There's nothing you can do, now. It's finished. If it was a sting, then they've seen your face, seen your car, your license plate. The fake name won't throw them off. 

Shane nods to himself. He needs to relax. He wanders numbly into the kitchen and procures a--oh. That's his last imperial stout. He'll need to go down to the liquor store and buy another pack. Which means going outside in daylight hours. When people can recognize his face. Shit.

He sighs, letting the chill of the fridge roll over him. Just... just survive tonight.

So he pops off the cap of that stout, sits down at his computer, and kicks up a game of Counter Strike. Tapping his fingers on his mouse, he eyes his friends list; 'friends,' rather, people he has never seen and only heard over a microphone. Ironically, the people he is closest with. Shane doesn't keep in touch with anyone from school--how long ago _was_ that?-- And his co-workers are no more than background noise at the garage.

As Shane connects to an ongoing match (defuse the bombs in this desert city!), he wonders if any share his sentiments. He rocks back and forth in his computer chair, staring at his keyboard. None of his online friends live in Ebott, he's sure. So they really don't have his perspective. They don't have seven-foot-plus apex predators just a short drive away. 

Shane grits his teeth, furrows his brow. 

... No, they wouldn't understand.

So he sets his status to 'busy' and blasts away random players for the night. 

\--- --- ---

Five hours later, Shane has killed and died over and over again. He glances at his clock. Time to get ready for work. 

His nerves are glowing faintly, his hands restless, the tips of his fingers just the tiniest but swollen, his spine straight. He can feel the dilation of his pupils. It's such a simple diversion, but--even if it's a stupid game, winning feels good.

It feels even better after you lose. 

\--- --- ---

Shane is sitting in his office, idly wondering if he could sneak a game in during break when his boss sticks his head in.

"Hey, Ted."

"Hey yourself, Shane. Got something for you," he says. 

Shane cocks his head slightly. "Is... something wrong?"

Ted twists his mouth, then shakes his head. "You better come see for yourself."

Shane kills his browser (open to a game forum, of course, didn't want anyone to see that) and follows Ted to the garage proper.

"I don't see why--"

Shane stops in mid-sentence, and stares. 

It's... red. So red. Ten foot wheelbase. Twenty four inch wheel diameter. Convertible. Massive spoiler. Yoke-style steering. Laser headlights. Haptic touchscreen control panel. Windshield-projected volumetric display.

Holy fuck. Holy doublefuck. This--this kind of hypercar is the thing people like Shane _dream_ of. The kind of thing people form sexual fetishes over. Not that Shane was into any of that weird stuff, but...

"Name it," Shane utters quietly. 

Ted scratches the back of his neck. "Well, uh... everything."

"... _Everything?_ "

"Maybe you should meet the owner, first."

"Sure."

They make their way to the front of the repair shop and into the lobby. It's unusually empty--the comfortable chairs lining the walls and toy cars on the floor for the kids are unused--but Shane's attention is riveted onto something else.

"Ah, master automobile craftsman! This is your finest of engineers, I presume?"

Shane blinks. Multiple times. And touches his eyeball, just to make sure. 

Standing before him in a black turtleneck and jeans and dress boots... is a skeleton. 

Shane opens and closes his mouth, unable to form words. 

"Ah, where are my manners? How pretentious (albeit correct!) of me to assume that my reputation would precede my arrival!" The skeleton throws his red scarf over his shoulder in a practiced flourish. "I, dear human, am the great Papyrus, Knight-Lieutenant of the Royal Guards!"

That voice like the crack of lightning... it reverberates, it _echoes_. Shane can only look up at that talking fanged skull, and marvel. Distant lights flicker in its eye sockets. And somehow, like clay, the skull moves with expression. No, that's impossible. It's not a _skeleton._ It's a monster... that looks like a skeleton. Behind this creature, four soldiers are waiting outside, looking somehow both on edge and bored.

Ted prods Shane in the back. He gives a start, then forces his mouth into the vague shape of a smile. "N-nice to m-meet you... uh, sir." 

Papyrus has a sudden glint in his eye... socket. "It is I who should be appreciative, dear human! For you see, I have been most scandalously bamboozled. My beloved car will not start!"

"Your... the red one?" Shane asks lamely.

"But of course!"

"Oh. Well. Uh... I, uh..." Shane looks to Ted desperately. Ted gives a small shrug. "I mean, uh, you can--I can--follow me," he sputters out all in a rush.

Shane takes Papyrus back to the garage, and the soldiers follow at a respectable distance. Once inside, Papyrus drapes himself lovingly over the hood of the car.

"Woe to you, my scarlet steed! My crimson chariot!" Papyrus turns to look at Shane, indignation in his sockets, nasal cavity flaring. Shane cringes. "A rascally knave on the OverNet assured me that this car would be in perfect working condition! But upon delivery, it would no awaken!"

"Over... Net?" Shane pauses. "You mean... the Internet?"

"Yes, yes, of course! They accepted my G so readily, and I paid a premium for a speedy delivery! It seems that those INFURIATING cyber-trolls have infiltrated human society, as well!"

Shane isn't sure of what to do. He looks at the soldiers, who look back at him with disinterest. He looks at Ted, who shrugs, yet again. So he clears his throat, and tries to sound more sure than he truly is.

"This is probably a deactivated showfloor model," he says, forcing to keep his voice steady. "It can work, but I need time to bruteforce the code. A... a few days."

"BRUTE force?" Papyrus sounds concerned. "Will my car be harmed?"

"What? It--no, I mean, that's a--it means I'll unlock it for you," Shane stammers out. 

"Like a cheat code!"

"... Kind of," Shane says weakly. 

"Very good, human! While I would prefer to do the honorable thing and pay your G upfront, I have been advised to instead wait until you have finished, so as not to repeat my previous embarrassment!" He tilts up his skull and laughs. It's a sound that makes everyone in the garage shrink away. "My lazybones brother knows nothing about cars, but he has good advice now and then!" Papyrus thrusts out a gloved hand (claw?) to Shane, who is so terrified he forgets to move. "I understand humans shake hands to seal contracts! It seems unnecessary, but is quite cool!"

Shane, in a daze, slowly extends a trembling hand. Papyrus catches it and shakes it vigorously, letting go just before he dislocated Shane's shoulder. "HA! Most excellent! Until next time, human!"

And as soon as he came, he was gone.

Shane and Ted stand there in the lobby, blinking at each other. 

"What the fuck was that?" Shane whispers hoarsely.

Ted just stares out the front windows. Finally, he says, "How the hell do we contact him?"


	12. Bolt

Shane looks at Ted for a moment, then asks shakily if he can take the day off.

Ted just nods.

Shane walks robotically out to the parking lot, beelines to his truck, closes the door, and hyperventilates. 

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

That was a fucking monster. A real, live, sentient, sapient, communicating monster.

Holy fuck. 

He presses his forehead against the steering wheel, squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to take steady breaths. But they just get shallower and shallower. 

It _touched_ him. 

The--

It--

It--

_It touched him._

Cold sweat stands out on his forehead. Saliva floods his mouth as his stomach tenses, contorts. 

In a less than prideful moment, Shane vomits a little in his mouth, grits his teeth, swallows it. Bitterness.

He coughs. 

Fuck. 

He rubs his right hand on his jeans, where the monster touched him. As if that'd cleanse the shadow of that red glove. Of that crushing grip. 

A strangled, wet sound leaps from Shane's throat.

It's a laugh, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The shortest entry. Never again, I promise._


	13. Cover

Shane decides to celebrate.

He had his first contact with a monster, after all. That's something. The majority of people in Ebott haven't even seen one at a distance.

But talking to one? Touching one's hand? Working on one's car? That's something. Shane wasn't sure _what,_ exactly, but it's something. 

First, when he gets home, he rushes to the bathroom and vomits. 

Then he sits on the bathroom tile, shuddering and gasping, fighting to keep his breaths shallow--

And he vomits again, arms braced against the bowl. 

He wipes his mouth, spits into the sink of a few times, sits there for a few minutes. It's quiet. He can hear the soft hum of the lightbulbs. 

The bitterness lays in his mouth like unspoken words.

... So that was a monster.

... Insectoid, maybe. Crustacean. Or arachnid. That would explain the exoskeleton. That... thing... must have some kind of internal set of muscles and organs. All hidden beneath that bonelike material. 

Shane leans his head against the wall, weary. 

Why did it look like a human skeleton? It must have been mimicry. Like moths or butterflies with eye-patterns on their wings. Or those mantises that look like flowers. 

Back when humans and monsters were fighting on the surface. Monsters like Papyrus... must have adapted. Clawed their way to the status of apex predator. Because who would give a second look to a skeleton in a warzone?

... And those sure as hell weren't human teeth. Shane didn't need to be a fucking dentist to know that. 

\--- --- ---

Shane has had a grand total of two panic attacks in his lifetime.

The first was when he lost sight of his mother at the mall. He had wandered too far. His head whipped about, eyes wide and terrified, and at a loss, he sat down on the floor and cried.

She found him approximately fifteen seconds later. Worst fifteen seconds of his life, so far. 

The second one was over two decades later in his truck in a parking lot. 

He's less proud of the second one. 

These vaguely nostalgic thoughts flicker in his brain as he washes the gastric acid from between his teeth and under his tongue. He spits out that orange-ish water, looks at himself in the mirror. 

Damn. He doesn't look so good. With circles under his eyes that dark, someone could mistake him for a skeleton.

\--- --- ---

He's out of beer, so his usual coping mechanism won't do. 

Problem is that his usual coping mechanism is his only coping mechanism. So Shane clambers in his truck and drives to a bar--a different one than usual. He doesn't want to deal with anyone who might recognize him. 

This bar's a little classier than what he's used to--younger crowd, louder music--but he'll have to do. He perches upon a stool at the counter, eyes the drink list, and orders--of course--an imperial stout. 

The bartender just nods. Shane knows he probably looks like a washed up loser, out of a job or maybe a marriage. But that's okay. If it means people won't talk to him, let it wash. 

Shane keeps his eyes down. Taps his shoe against the stool to the beat of whatever song's playing--something in the top 100, poppy and derivative and industry-standard.

But he glances left and right occasionally. Because his curiosity is just enough to make him lift his head. No more than that, though.

Odd. A lot of people are looking up and to the right. Shane follows their gazes, and--

Shane blinks.

The bartender slides his beer over to him.

Holy shit.

On the bar's bigscreen TV, there's... there's a fucking _dinosaur._ Wearing glasses and a lab coat (with a fucking pocket protector), but... that's a fucking _bipedal reptile._ It must be--what, five and a half feet? But it's stout, compact, hunched, like in a permanent prowl.

And it's _talking._

Shane blinks again, shaking himself out of his trance, and starts to read the subtitles crawling across the bottom of the screen. The dinosaur--what's it's name? Alphys--Doctor Alphys, technically--is talking to some political commentator about Ebott's electrical grid or something. They're sitting on one of those weird talk show sets--all black, just two chairs and a table--and Alphys is visibly sweating.

Wait... the camera turns, and it's not just Alphys and the commentator. There's a blue woman sitting with them--

Undyne. The royal guard captain. 

She looks... bored. Glances from the camera to the commentator, bouncing her heel, crossing and recrossing her legs. Her gills flare now and again--is she sighing? Does she even _need_ to breathe through her mouth and nose, or--

Shane keeps reading the subtitles. They're talking about... energy production. That's right, that's where he recognize her from--she's the one that ran the energy reactor down underground. Some kind of advanced thing, like fusion or antimatter--the press articles didn't explain much.

And here, Alphys is trying to explain--there's a gleam in her snakelike eyes, and she's talking faster and more smoothly, and she's gesturing with her hooked claws--but it's physics and theory beyond what Shane can grasp. Some patrons in the bar are looking at each other blankly. The commentator is glancing off-set, confused. Undyne drags a finned hand down her face, shaking her head.

Shane finishes his beer in record time and throws a ten over the counter and leaves, hands in pockets and head down. 

\--- --- ---

Shane sits on a bench at a bus stop.

He's not going to take the bus. He doesn't really like public transportation. But he's not good to drive. It wasn't the beer, though. His blood is on fire and his heart is hammering from seeing two monsters in what was supposed to be his refuge.

On TV, the Internet, the radio. He can't get away from them, can he?

A bus pulls up. The door open. The driver looks over at him expectantly.

... Shane could always just _leave_ Ebott.

He looks at the driver.

Then he gets up and starts walking down the street.

No.

That would be surrendering.


	14. Harvest

Shane keeps the radio off as he drives to work.

This is probably the first time in years he's looked forward to work. And probably the first time he's truly dreaded work.

He gets to lovingly work on an Italian hypercar. But, said car is owned by a monster. That's a fucked up love triangle. 

But as he pulls into his usual parking spot, gets out, dons his jumpsuit--he vacates his mind of thought. Instead, he visualizes the inside of that car, waiting for him, beckoning in the language of the machine. 

As he enters through the employee-only labeled backdoor, he stops.

Standing in his garage are two soldiers, armed, armored, and dressed in black. They look up. Shane's brain hits the redline. 

... Is this a sting? No. It would be police, right? Not the military. And it wouldn't just be two. And they would've gotten him at his house, not at work, right? And--

"Shane Marshall?" one asks, walking towards him. She shifts her rifle to her back, pulls down her balaclava, pulls off her helmet; her expression is... welcoming, almost. No hardness around her eyes. 

"T-that's me," he says, his voice quieter and less sure than he'd like. 

The woman nods and extends a hand. Shane reaches out and shakes it tentatively. "I am First Sergeant Martinez, and that--" She tilts her head back at the other soldier, who is still inspecting the garage-- "Is Sergeant Major Rickenbacker. We accompanied Knight-Lieutenant Papyrus yesterday."

Shane nods automatically, trying not to look too lost. The skeletal bone monster had captured all of his attention. "Yeah, I remember you," he lies. The other soldier--Rickenbacker--glance sidelong at him from across the garage. "Is there, uh, something I can help you with?"

Martinez smiles--it's a practiced smile, for cameras and journalists and skittish civilians. "Knight Papyrus is a very important figure, and as such we've decided to make sure that no harm would come to you as you repair his car."

"You mean, like... from anti-monster people?"

"Precisely," she says. "At the Camp Ebott checkpoint, we've had a few... altercations." Rickenbacker walks over to the two of them, assault rifle still resting against his front. He stands a bit too close. "Since you're deep in the city, we would like to be here preemptively in case someone attempts to harm you for rendering a service. That said, you and your business will be paid extra for your consideration."

Shane hadn't thought about that at all. The people at Daniel's anti-monster meeting hadn't come across as the violent, confrontational type. "Oh," he blurts out, despite himself. "Okay, uh... thanks. You, um... you two want anything? There's water, coffee--"

"Pleasantries are all well and good," Rickenbacker drawls, looking over at the car. "But the sooner you get started, the better." Martinez shoots him a sharp look. 

"Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. Will do."

\--- --- ---

Shane tries to lose himself in his work in the next few days. Really, he does. And he almost does, too--but then he catches a glimpse of black combat boots from underneath the car, or the sound of a rifle scraping against a chest rig, and he's jarred back into reality.

He rolls underneath the car on his creeper, his feet sticking out from beneath, and takes a deep breath. 

Don't say anything suspicious. That's all he needs to do. 

Martinez and Rickenbacker are dead silent. They don't make small talk or ask what he's doing; they just watch, or turn to watch the doors. It's worse that they're silent; Shane is afraid to _think_ in case they might hear it.

\--- --- ---

Shane skips the next anti-monster meeting.

He stays home and drinks instead, stewing in fear.

\--- --- ---

"Mr. Marshall."

Shane jerks up, bashing his head against the popped hood. He bites back a "Fuck!" and turns to Martinez, rubbing at his scalp. "Yeah! Uh, what's up?"

"Out of curiosity, have you told anyone about this current project of yours?" She gestures to the car.

His mouth is suddenly dry. "I--no, I haven't told anything. It seemed like--well, you know, like it'd be easiest if less people knew." Rickenbacker's eyes are boring holes through him.

Martinez smiles that placating smile again. "I thought as much. Thank you. Your discretion is appreciated."

Shane nods, and tries to return the smile. He gets about halfway there.

\--- --- ---

It's done. It works. A mere showroom model is now a fully-functioning, barely street legal super-touring hypercar. Lights, air conditioning, heating, radio, it all works. 

Shane gets into the driver's seat and hits the start button.

"Test drive?" Rickenbacker appears out of nowhere at the window. Shane is surprised he didn't jump out of the seat.

"Yeah. Just once around."

"Makes sense." Rickenbacker circles the car and gets into the passenger seat, resting the stock of his rifle between his feet. 

Shane looks over at him blankly. 

"It isn't going to drive itself," Rickenbacker says. 

\--- --- ---

It's like DMV all over again, but worse, because if he fails he gets shot in the side of the head. 

So Shane is meticulous in going _exactly_ the speed limit, always signalling (even on empty streets), changing lanes one at a time, and every other learner's permit-level move he can think of. He _should_ be enjoying all this horsepower and the wind in his hair, but... nope.

They're sitting at an abnormally long red light when Rickenbacker looks over at him.

"What do you think of monsters?"

Shane stares straight ahead. "They're people, like you and me."

"Yeah, I saw that PSA too. Sanctimonious stuff. But you gotta indoctrinate the kids young, right? While their brains are nice and plastic." 

Shane is silent.

"Tell me what you really think."

"I told you."

"You told me what the government wants you to think. Tell me what you think."

Shane wants this red light to end. So badly. "I, uh... I mean, they can talk, they have families. Yeah, they're... _different,_ and maybe there was a war. But humans have wars all the time, right? We just stopped having one."

Rickenbacker just stares. Shane feels like his guts are going to fall out of his ass. 

"Three valid points," he continues. "I'll accept them."

The light turns green. 

\--- --- ---

They get back, and Ted and Martinez are waiting for them.

"All systems are go," Shane announces to Ted, a bit of boastfulness shining through. 

Ted just gives him a thumbs up. "That's why I came to you." He turns to Martinez. "We've already discussed payment, but--how are we going to return to the car? Is Mr. Papyrus going to come pick it up?"

Martinez's smile falters, just a bit. Or perhaps it was Shane's imagination. "Knight Papyrus is currently busy for the next few days, actually, therefore--"

"--Therefore, Mr. Marshall will drop off the car at Papyrus' residence in Camp Ebott," Rickenbacker interrupts. "He has shown that he can drive it beautifully." He turns to Shane, smiling oddly. "We will further compensate you. Is that satisfactory?"

Shane stands there, blood draining from his brain and pooling in his heart. Then, suddenly, he remembers that he is alive. "Yes," he rasps.


	15. Trail

Shane was considering throwing himself out the door of a car moving approximately seventy miles per hour.

But then he glances to the side and watches the lines of the highway flicker past, and changes his mind.

So, he keeps driving.

"Why me?" He yells over the wind.

"Why you? Why not?" Rickenbacker yells back, tugging at the cuffs of his uniform, flicking each wrist. "Right place, right time. Serendipity." 

"The monster--"

"His name is Papyrus."

"--He couldn't come get it? He was here before--"

"As part of the royal guard, Papyrus has a slew of duties to attend to. Guarding the royal family. Guarding Frisk." Rickenbacker kicks up his feet onto the dash, crossing them. "That's understandable, right? You understand."

"Yeah, but--"

"And you're a far better driver than me and Martinez combined, _and_ this is a very expensive car, _and_ the royal coffers just got quite a bit lighter over it, so that's why you're coming along, Marshall."

Shane glances at the rearview mirror. Coming up behind them is the jet-black CUV, windows tinted so dark he can't see Martinez at the wheel. 

He sees his off-ramp exit and signals right. The CUV behind does the same.

"Should I know anything?"

Rickenbacker is watching the scenery, the sudden transition from city into forest. Doesn't bother to turn his head. "Such as?"

"I mean, like--" Shane struggles for words. "Things I shouldn't say, or do? Is it safe? On TV they said something about getting rabies shots before--"

Rickenbacker makes an amused noise. Or, at least, Shane hopes that's amusement. "They aren't wild animals, Marshall. They're all intelligent and self-aware as any human." He pauses, twisting his mouth. "That's not glowing praise, but you know what I mean."

Shane nods, maybe a little too vehemently. 

They drive for another twenty minutes until they finally hit the checkpoint. There's a short clearing right between the dense trees of the forest and the Camp Ebott checkpoint proper; Shane slows the car once in the clearing, and sees a mass of people standing in the road.

Shane leans forward in his seat. Protesters. 

He lets the car roll along on its momentum, soaking in everything about the scene; the shouting, the signs, the pamphlets scattered on the pavement, and megaphones. He can feel it--feels like the air's getting denser and denser, full of anger and fear and... righteousness.

"You can accelerate, if you want," Rickenbacker quips. He leans back, adjusting his rifle's position in the back seat.

Shane looks over at him, mouth slightly open.

"That's called a joke, Marshall. Do me a favor and don't actually vehicular-ly manslaughter them."

His knuckles are white against the wheel. He works his throat, and then:

"Should I--"

"Drive. I radioed ahead."

So he does... slowly. Rickenbacker drums his knuckles against the outside of the car as it creeps along. The protesters, now curious, swarm around the car, yelling and throwing pamphlets, beating at the windshield with their signs. Spittle feels like mist against Shane's face.

And then one, coming up from the right, spits on Rickenbacker.

He's fast. He opens the door hard, slamming into the man, and vaults out, landing directly on top of the now-howling protester. Shane hits the breaks, and watches, horrified.

With one hand on the back of the man's neck and a knee in his back, Rickenbacker binds him in cuffs in a practiced motion. "You are being detained for assaulting a keeper of the peace. You have the right to remain silent," he recites in a perfectly impersonal drone. The man continues thrashing, and Rickenbacker draws his tazer, plunging it between the man's shoulderblades. He screams as he convulses, and the other protesters grow quiet.

The soldiers have approached, now, and are beginning to cuff the rest of the belligerent protesters. The rest link arms and begin chanting something. 

"Deal with them, Morgenstern," Rickenbacker barks to a younger-looking soldier, who nods curtly. With a sigh, Rickenbacker climbs back into the car. "Hope that idiot didn't scratch the paint."

Shane just sits there, staring out the window at what looked like the aftermath of a small riot.

"Drive, Marshall," Rickenbacker growls.

So he does.

\--- --- ---

"Is it... always like that?"

Once past the checkpoint, it's nothing but picturesque natural beauty: trees and flowers and streams and tall standing stones. The further up the mountain's base they go, the more of the monster settlement they see; prefabricated and gentrified, but with enough quirks and personal touches to houses and buildings to make it bearable. He spies a few monsters walking around, or tending to their front yards, and twists his neck around to stare.

"Like what?" Rickenbacker scratches at his sleeve. "Oh, the checkpoint. Yeah, try every day. That wasn't so bad, compared to some of the others. People bring their kids and grandparents, and that's a fucking hassle, let me tell you."

Shane passes a row of rather nice houses--though the doors and windows seem a bit too large. "What do you--"

"Pack 'em up, drop 'em off at the police station. Then they come back. Over and over." Rickenbacker rubs at his forehead. "Free speech, right to assembly, all that. They haven't done anything crazy, yet. But they've never seen a real live monster." His voice leadens. "I won't let that happen."

They drive in silence for a little longer, Shane glancing over at the GPS on Rickenbacker's wrist communicator to guide him the rest of the way. Eventually, Shane turns onto what could be mistaken as a completely normal, upper-middle class suburb.

Rickenbacker points. "That one."

A completely ordinary, two story house. Nothing about it says 'monster.' 

They pull into the driveway and get out--Shane feels a pang of longing as he closes the door behind him. Martinez parks the CUV on the curb and joins them. 

"That was excessive," she says. 

"Hello to you too," Rickenbacker says dryly. 

She sighs, then looks at Shane. Her lips scythe upward into an apologetic smile. "That wasn't a very pleasant welcoming, I'm afraid."

Shane rubs at his arm. "No, uh, it's fine. I mean--"

He's interrupted by a harsh knocking--one two three--and he and Martinez turn to see Rickenbacker standing on the doorstep. 

A faint "Coming!" is heard from within. Shane grits his teeth, already feeling a coldness settling in his intestines. Mere moments later the door is flung open.

There he stands.

" _GLORIOUS!_ " the skeletal creature declares to the living and dead. Shane flinches. 

Papyrus rushes past Rickenbacker and lays a hand on the hood of the car. " _Feel_ the heat of a heart borne only to know velocity! Ha! A chariot of fire for the modern knight!" He presses his cheek (or equivalent of a zygomatic bone) to the warm hood, with a satisfied chuckle.

Shane takes a few steps back, blinking. Papyrus is wearing... well, a white cooking apron. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the bizarre structure of his forearms--bones that are somewhat human, but somehow sturdier, more complex in their interlock--and aside from that, he's just wearing a T-shirt and jeans. It's so...

Normal.

"Morning, Papyrus," Rickenbacker calls out, hands in his pockets as he ambles back to look over Papyrus' shoulder. "Cooking something new, huh?"

The skeleton scoffs. "Baking, Master Sergeant, baking! One does not merely _cook_ saffron croissants!" His eyes widen. "Ah! Where are my manners?" The bone-automaton draws itself to its full height--easily a head taller than Shane, who shrinks back--and places a hand to its chest.

"I, Papyrus, do grant you my deepest of thanks, human!" Shane stands affixed to the spot, fight-or-flight signals sparking in his brain. "Many a monster has tried to slander the honor of humans, but I had faith in you! You, exemplar of your species, have proven that humans can deal in the art of automobiles... with VIRTUE!"

That last booming word jolts Shane to his senses, and he takes a further step back. "It's--it's--I--"

Papyrus leans forward and clamps a hand on Shane's shoulder. He smells of saffron. "Fear not, human! Today, as befits your great accomplishment and passion, you are now an honorary squire of the monster royal guards!"

"Wait, _what?_ " Rickenbacker explodes, turning on Shane with ferocity.

"Papyrus, can you even--" Martinez begins, but she stops when they hear Shane's barely audible answer.

"... Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The more you critically comment, the more I'll hopefully improve._
> 
>  
> 
> _Meanwhile, behold this farce._


	16. Blend

Shane gets home and slams the door. 

He rips off his clothes, piece by piece, on the way to the bathroom.

He turns on the shower and immediately gets in, frigid water be damned. It goes from freezing to scalding to seconds, but he doesn't care.

He scrubs. He scrubs like Hell. The soap begins to break apart in his hands, but he scrubs. His face, his hair, his arms, his hands--his hands especially. Until his skin is red and raw, until pinpricks of blood bloom. 

He sits down in the shower, breathing in the hot vapor, hands pressed against his face. 

He should have said no.

He should have said no, find someone else to fix the car.

He should have said no, drive the car back yourself.

He should have said no, I won't be an honorary... _thing._

Why couldn't he just fucking say _no?_ One fucking word, two fucking letters, but apparently that's just beyond him.

He doesn't know how much time has passed before he reaches up and turns off the water. He sits there, listening to the gurgle of the drain and the slow drip of the showerhead. He looks at the water prisming against his inflamed, pruned skin.

He needs a plan.

\--- --- ---

He spends the next two hours combing through news sites and social media, the TV on in the background. Pro-monster, anti-monster, everything. But there's nothing about there being a human inducted into the monster royal guard. How long until people knew? Until that... _creature_ Papyrus told the human media? What if Frisk says something about it at the next conference, as a show of goodwill? What if--

Shane doubles over, his breathing shallow. He forces his lungs to slow, to steady. He latches his shaking hands to his computer desk. 

_Breathe._

He licks his dry lips, pulling in air through his nose. He lifts his head, looking back up at his computer monitor.

If he falls apart now, it's all over. He just needs to... wait. Watch and wait. Over the next week. Those military people--Rickenbacker and Martinez--they seemed pretty shocked. Maybe they thought it was a bad idea, and would keep that knowledge from going too far.

Maybe.

\--- --- ---

He makes some spaghetti. He hasn't been eating as much these past few weeks, and he's already down a few pounds. The fear living in his stomach has kept him more than full.

But he forces himself to eat.

Two beers make it go down a little easier.

\--- --- ---

Shane lies on his couch, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes move in slow circles, watching the ceiling fan.

He looks over at his closet.

He needs to go back.

\--- --- ---

He's a little early. So he sits in his truck, slouching down a bit in the driver's seat. From four blocks away, he watches the slow trickle of people into a single house.

Daniel's house. 

The streetlights snap on, all at once, as the suburb begins to darken in the mountain's vast shadow. Working his dry throat, he gets out of his truck and begins his slow march to that front door, keeping a wide berth of the streetlights.

He has no choice, at this point.

When he gets to the door, he doesn't even need to ring the doorbell--they must've seen him come across the lawn. The door opens, revealing the same woman from last time. Her brows rise with recognition.

Shane almost turns around and runs.

But she just opens the door a little further, and he steps into the house, letting her guide him to the basement.

"Thanks," Shane says automatically. He bites his tongue.

The woman seems surprised at that single word, but her face falls back into its previous neutrality. She simply nods, and tilts her head towards the basement.

Shane descends and finds a seat, not making eye contact with anyone. There seem to be a few more crammed down here than last time. Then again, this could be 'average.' Maybe the last meeting he dropped into had less than usual. Who knows?

"Oh, hello, Dan. We were about to begin."

Shane glances up. Daniel is in front of the group, smiling at him cordially. Shane forces his lips to arc upwards, just slightly, and nods. 

Daniel clears his throat, and begins.

... Begins with stuff about the mayor, politicians, human rights organizations, the military, the president. Shane feels his shoulders sag with relief. Nothing about him. 

"... Monster visitation hours are still officially between 8AM and 8PM," Daniel says, pacing between the folding chairs. "They are still chaperoned by the military at all times. If we, as a community, as an _electorate_ , insist that the curfew and military escort stays in place as long as possible--"

"We didn't elect those generals," comes a voice from the back. Necks twist to find it. "And they know it. It's martial fucking law out there."

Shane doesn't need to look. He knows that voice.

"Roger, for the sake of professionalism, let's not exaggerate. As difficult as things are, Ebott isn't under martial law."

Roger crosses his arms. "Ask the protesters at the camp checkpoint. They would ask the soldiers for the name, rank, and service number--stuff they're supposed to give--and they'd be ignored or arrested. Detained and forcibly transported without explanation for indefinite amounts of time. Does that sound like an ordinary day to you?"

"We were just getting to that," Daniel replies briskly. "As we have discussed prior, we should do everything we can to distance ourselves from these so-called 'protesters,' as they're only hurting our cause--"

"They're _visible,_ " counters Roger.

"That's precisely the problem. They play directly into the pro-monster narrative of anti-monster citizens being violent and bigoted."

"And they represent more people than the few demonstrating at the camp."

"Roger," Daniel says, looking at him very intently. "We've had this conversation."

Roger shrugs and looks away.

"However, on the topic of the checkpoint, I think you should report your findings." Daniel's voice is suddenly conciliatory. Paternal.

"Yeah. Sure." Roger stands up, making sure all eyes are on him. "I've had a few remote cameras hidden near the expressways going to Mount Ebott. Some big black military cars--CUVs--are going in and out in the middle of the night."

"So what?" Someone presses.

"So what are they hiding?" Roger continues, vigor heating his voice. "The mayor said everything would be transparent and open to the public, but all we've seen is this cloak and dagger shit."

Daniel clears his throat again. Roger glances at him, then back to the group. "One morning, a CUV came out of Camp Ebott, towing a sports car. A few days later, that car was being driven back into through the checkpoint."

Shane's stops breathing. 

"I couldn't figure out where it went--but logically, it probably went to a specialty auto shop. If we ask around--"

"What does this have to do with anything?" Yet another voice. Shane flicks his gaze left. It's the woman who opened the door. She's leaning against the wall.

Roger makes an amused noise. "Oh, right--my mistake. One of the monster royal guards was _riding in that towed car._ "

Silence.

 _"What?"_ Several people say at once. Others begins murmuring amongst themselves, an undercurrent of fear bitter in the air. Daniel calls for order.

"They were going pretty fast," Roger says, spreading his hands, "but I know a monster when I see one."

"So where's the footage?"

Every set of eyes turns to fall upon Shane. His throat is so tight he can't believe anyone heard him.

Roger stiffly turns to him. "What?"

"I said, where's the footage? If you have proof that--that a monster went into the city without the--without verification, why not just send it to everyone? Put it on the Internet?"

Roger's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again: "It's... blurry."

"So what?" Shane asks. Sweat is pouring down his sides and his face feels hot but he keeps his eyes on Roger and Roger only.

"So if it gets discredited, then anti-monster citizens look not only foolish, but paranoid," Daniel interjects smoothly. 

"That's--that's not the _point,_ it's not solid proof, it's just a place to start! We go to every auto shop in the city--"

"Yeah, and how many are there?" Someone asks. A few chuckles.

"--And ask them about a red Italian supercar! How fuckin' hard--"

"Roger," Daniel murmurs. 

Roger sits down, jaw set.

"Roger is correct," Daniel says, much to the group's surprise. "This is not damning evidence, but one piece of the puzzle. If we can produce a burden of proof, of rational and sane proof, and present it in an organized fashion--"

He goes on for a while. Shane just sweats and looks down at his shoes and wrings his hands. He can feel Roger staring at the back of his skull. 

The meeting ends, finally. The people file out. Daniel gives Shane only a brief smile and a wave before going to speak with the woman who answers the door.

Shane walks out into the night air, sweat flowing down his body like a glacier. He--holy fucking shit, he--he did it.

A slap on the back. "You're pretty sharp, Dan."

Shane grinds to a halt. He slowly turns his head.

Roger is at his shoulder, lips tugged into a conceding half-smirk. "I'm glad I got you to come. We need more people like you, you know. Men not afraid to speak up. Most of them--" Roger gestures to the cars driving away in the night-- "They just show up to hear Daniel talk, y'know? And he talks a good talk. But none of them really have the guts to do anything. They want Daniel to save them from themselves."

Shane grunts noncommittally. "Business as usual."

"Business as usual in the most unusual time in human fucking history, Dan. That's what these fucking PTA dads and soccer moms don't get. This isn't schoolyard bullshit, this is an invisible war." Roger says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "And at this rate, we're gonna lose, and lose bad."

Shane forces some arrogance into his voice. It tastes like bile. "Giving up so soon?"

Roger's head snaps up. "Don't even joke about that." He glances up and down the street, finding only a sleepy suburb. A dog barks in the distance.

The two stand there awkwardly for a moment.

"You doing anything on Saturday?"

"Why?"

Roger smiles.


End file.
